The interview did not last long, and Sidney left the
house without seeing Jane a second time.

She would have promised anything now. Seeing
that life had but one path of happiness for her, the
path hopelessly closed, what did it matter by which
of the innumerable other ways she accomplished her
sad journey? For an instant, whilst Sidney was
still speaking, she caught a gleam of hope in renunciation
itself, the kind of strength which idealism is fond
of attributing to noble natures. A gleam only,
and deceptive; she knew it too well after the day spent
by her grandfather’s side, encouraging, at the
expense of her heart’s blood, all his revived
faith in her. But she would not again give way.
The old man should reap fruit of her gratitude and
Sidney should never suspect how nearly she had proved
herself unworthy of his high opinion.

She had dreamed her dream, and on awaking must be
content to take up the day’s duties. Just
in the same way, when she was a child at Mrs. Peckover’s,
did not sleep often bring a vision of happiness, of
freedom from bitter tasks, and had she not to wake
in the miserable mornings, trembling lest she had
lain too long? Her condition was greatly better
than then, so much better that it seemed wicked folly
to lament because one joy was not granted her.—­Why,
in the meantime she had forgotten all about Pennyloaf.
That visit must be paid the first thing this morning.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE TREASURY UNLOCKED

A Sunday morning. In their parlour in Burton
Crescent, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Snowdon were breakfasting.
The sound of church bells—­most depressing
of all sounds that mingle in the voice of London—­
intimated that it was nearly eleven o’clock,
but neither of our friends had in view the attendance
of public worship. Blended odours of bacon and
kippered herrings filled the room—­indeed,
the house, for several breakfasts were in progress
under the same roof. For a wonder, the morning
was fine, even sunny; a yellow patch glimmered on
the worn carpet, and the grime of the window-panes
was visible against an unfamiliar sky. Joseph,
incompletely dressed, had a Sunday paper propped before
him, and read whilst he ate. Clem, also in anything
but grande toilette was using a knife for the
purpose of conveying to her mouth the juice which
had exuded from crisp rashers. As usual, they
had very little to say to each other. Clem looked
at her husband now and then, from under her eyebrows,
surreptitiously.